One time too many
by Lago Lindari
Summary: Spencer Reid was an idiot of a genius who walked in front of armed madmen with his gun holstered and his hands raised, relying only in his voice and brain. ... And Morgan couldn't help but fear that, someday, he would do it one time too many.
1. Chapter 1

**One time too many**

Spencer Reid was, notoriously, a genius.

He had an IQ of 187, supposedly higher than Einstein's, and graduated from high school when he was twelwe. He could decipher riddles with an almost annoying lack of effort, and thwart or conceive the most complex, subtle of plans. He could read twenty thousand words per minute, and remember word by word of pretty much anything he'd read with that photographic memory of his.

("It's called _eidetic_, Morgan."

"That's what I said, kid.")

Morgan could still remember one night they'd spent on the jet – flying back home. He sat fiddling with his watch, bored after his Ipod had run out of battery, too worked up to sleep – and he'd met Reid's gentle smile across the half-darkness. He'd gone to sit with him, and something in his eyes must have given him away – Reid had curled up in a corner of the sofa, and had recited him the first few chapters of Vonnegut's _Slaughterhouse Five_. His voice was low and soothing, and Morgan had found himself smiling and quietly drifting off about the time Billy Pilgrim stood in his garden, waiting for the Trafalmadorians' flying saucer to come.

(Reid had never mentioned it afterwards, but, for a few days – his smile had seemed, if possible, even warmer than usual.)

Reid was lecturing students that were often older than he was – maybe that was why he always ended up complaining they didn't get his jokes. He wrote brilliant papers on every subject that struck his fancy, and was currently working on his umpteenth degree in some overly-intellectual subject.

(It was his third, and it was in philosophy. Also, Reid was currently vehemently arguing with Plato on the allegorical significance of some cave myth. Not that Morgan would ever admit he knew all this – or that he would, from time to time, ask Garcia to hack into the university database to check on Reid's progression. Just to make sure the kid had enough time to study, that was.)

So, yes: all considered, Morgan had to concede that the kid was, indeed, a genius.

And yet, sometimes – Spencer Reid was an _idiot_.

ooo

"Donald, put the gun down. Please," Reid's voice chided, gentle. "I promise no one will harm you."

Morgan could hear ragged breathing in the background, as a sizzling silence stretched for the following seconds. He pressed his earpiece as deep as it would go, trying to block every other sound as he swiftly moved along the corridor, heading for the hotel room where Hotch and Reid had the Unsub cornered.

"This place is a fucking labyrinth," muttered one of the SWAT guys following him – and Morgan almost snarled in his face, growling "Shut up!," as he heard an unknown, shaky voice speak, a little muffled by the distance.

"I can't. I have to – I need..."

The following words were drowned by a static. Morgan barely refrained from swearing aloud.

"Donald – you don't want to do this," Reid said, soothing. "I know that you feel like there is no other option – like you will never feel better again. But I swear to God, if you put the gun down – I'll help you. We'll find the help you need. You have to believe – that you _can_ make it."

The static crackled. "No one can help me," the Unsub whimpered. He sounded very young, very scared, and most likely under the effects of a drug of sort. Straining, Morgan could hear a faint click – like someone unlocking the safety of a gun. He felt something that was cold and sharp run down his back, like an icy worm crawling its way under his skin.

"You don't wanna die, Donald," Reid almost pleaded. And Morgan - Morgan suddenly _remembered_.

ooo

"He's sending out mixed messages. It's weird," had commented Reid, staring at the billboard and chewing lightly on his bottom lip. "If we profile the notes he left on the crime scenes and his private emails, what we get is the portrait of an individual with overwhelming suicidal tendencies, not a killer."

"Considering the level of obsession he shows in his writing, if he was really suicidal, he would have killed himself a long time ago," Morgan had replied, skimming through the papers scattered on the table. "This doesn't make any sense."

Reid's eyes had narrowed. "It's almost as if - on some level, he _wants_ to die, but he is too afraid to _actually_ kill himself."

"So maybe that's why he's targeting males with a body structure that's definitely stronger than the average," Morgan had said. "Maybe he's hoping one of them will fight back and kill him. A sort of indirect, passive-aggressive suicide."

"Maybe," had said Reid, slow, without tearing his eyes from the board. He had frowned. "Maybe, he wants someone to _stop_ him."

ooo

Morgan felt his knees go weak as was hit by the realization, hard and sudden like a punch in the guts – and it was at once clear that he wasn't the only one to have made the connection.

"He's gonna _make us_ shoot him," exclaimed Hotch, and his words resounded into Morgan's earpiece like a death sentence. Burning sweat broke out on his forehead, his back, as he heard Rossi yelling something in the distance –

"Reid, get out of there!" he shouted, causing the SWAT guys to jump in surprise. No answer.

"Donald. You don't _have_ to," said Reid's voice, gentle.

"I have no _choice_," the Unsub replied, almost apologetic. And then –

("Oh God," whispered Prentiss, somewhere in the building,)

– Morgan could hear a gunshot, hitting his ear-drum like a blow – and right after, chaos exploded in his earpiece, deafening him with yells and shots and loud thumps. Morgan tried to swallow.

He could not hear Reid's voice.

ooo

An utter, complete _idiot_.

Like, for example, that time he tried to talk down a crazed delusional boy who was holding a rifle almost as big as a goddamn _machine gun _– and he actually succeeded, for God's sake. Or the time he thrusted his gun into Morgan's hands and walked to face a man loaded with explosives, armed with nothing but his speech. Or when he went to stand between the team and an armed killer, without even wearing a damn vest, trying to prevent them from shooting...

"You'll have to accept the fact," Morgan had said, always the big brother, so wise and experienced, so stuck up his own ass – God, how he wanted to kick himself when he thought about it – "That we can't save everyone." Reid had nodded, then, had said he understood, but Morgan, deep down, _knew_ – Reid may have acknowledged it, but that didn't mean he'd started _believing_ it just yet.

Morgan could, on some level, understand. The feeling of being expendable, maybe – of having to demonstrate he could actually help, he could make a difference. Somehow, maybe Reid was still trying to prove that he was worthy of the position he held, that his brain could be an asset out in the field as well.

Or, maybe, Reid simply didn't want to see people die. And Morgan could understand that, too – but, honestly, he was freaking tired of risking a heart attack every time. Over the years, he'd learned that, if you couldn't save everyone, you had to get your priorities straight. And, if the choice was between Reid and the psycho of the moment – it was simply a no-brainer.

Spencer Reid was an idiot of a genius who walked in front of armed madmen with his gun holstered and his hands raised, relying only in his voice and brain – because, deep down, he still wanted to believe that reasoning and talking should always be enough.

And Morgan couldn't help but fear that, someday – he would do it one time too many.

ooo

Morgan was hurrying through the corridors when the shots died out, and the noises calmed down enough to let him hear Hotch, calling - "Clear!" And then, louder – the closest to yelling he'd ever heard him – "Agent down! Send up the medics - I got an agent down!"

"_Hotch_!" He barked, as he nearly rammed in the wall a policeman who hadn't moved promptly enough out of his way. "Status! What the _hell _happened there?"

There was a long moment of silence on the other side of the line. "Morgan," Hotch said finally, his voice calm and strained. "Get over here." He paused for an instant before he added, almost under his breath – "Make it _fast_."

And Morgan _ran_. He got to goddamn room 207 with his head throbbing and his lungs on fire, striding past the SWAT guys that cluttered the doorway. He quickly surveyed the room, panting, and spared a quick glance to a body, strewn across the floor, which was clearly the Unsub and which was also rather clearly dead. _You got what you wanted, at last, you son of a bitch_, he thought vaguely, and then – then, he saw Reid.

He was slumped against the wall, half-seated, one of his long legs bent. He was trying fruitlessly to hold himself up with one arm – Morgan could see the way his hand kept slipping on the tiled floor, his elbow threatening to give way. Hotch was crouching beside him, holding him by the shoulders, preventing him from falling sideways.

"Sorry," he heard Reid say, his voice thin. "Hotch – I thought I could..."

He stopped, blinking slowly, and leaned his head back against the wall. Hotch gripped his shoulders harder. "It's alright. Now, you just keep looking at me. You – Morgan, get over here, _now_."

Morgan had to fight not to throw himself at Reid's side, forcing himself to kneel slowly. _(Stay calm. Just – remain calm.) _He swallowed as he scanned Reid's body, trying to assess the damage – trying desperately to detach his mind from the fact that it was _Reid_, damn it. Reid, who was pressing one hand against his stomach – Morgan hissed as he saw dark blood, trickling through his fingers. It had already soaked part of his cardigan and was now dripping slowly on the floor, starting to pool at Reid's side.

"What happened?" Morgan asked, stupidly, and couldn't quite prevent his voice from sounding strangled.

Hotch looked at him briefly. "The Unsub had time to shoot before we brought him down," he said, his jaw set, hard. "Hold him. I'll get something to try and slow the bleeding. Keep him talking."

Morgan brought his hands to Reid's shoulders, steadying him as Hotch slowly released his grip and moved away. Reid opened his eyes, and his gaze seemed to take longer than usual to focus on Morgan's face – he swallowed, then let out a soft moan. Morgan felt like someone had smacked him right across the face.

"Hey, kid," he said, his voice husky. His brain felt goddamn _puffy_, and was just refusing to think straight. "Looks like you got yourself in another mess. I'm getting tired of this habit of yours, you know."

Reid's lips twitched in the smallest, pained grin. "Know. 'M sorry," he mumbled. "Thought I could – help him."

"It's alright, kid. You did good." Morgan shifted closer, adjusting his grip on Reid's arms. He stared straight into Reid's eyes, trying to force a smile out. "You do something like this again, though, I'm smacking you."

Reid actually snorted a half-attemp to a laugh. "I'm counting – on it," he murmured. He closed his eyes, wetting his lips, as his chest heaved. "Reid," Morgan called – as Hotch crouched back down with a small curtain he'd all but ripped off its rings. He pressed it against Reid's abdomen, causing him to hiss in pain, with a sharp breath. When Reid looked back at Morgan, his eyes seemed clouded.

"_Reid_," Morgan called, fighting the urge to shake him. "Kid, listen to me. You gotta stay awake. Reid – " Reid's head was slowly lolling forward, as he struggled to remain conscious. Morgan brought one hand to brush Reid's hair away from his face, then cupped his cheek, helping him remain upright. He felt Reid lean heavily against his touch, his eyes half-closed, his lips almost gray. His skin felt _cold_.

"Reid. Come on, stay with me, man," Morgan said, as he tried frantically to think of something which would help. A sudden, crazy inspiration sparkled in his mind – God, maybe he'd gone insane. Or maybe he was starting to get the hang of this genius thing. "Reid. _Reid_," he called, raising his voice to get his attention. "_Prime numbers_. Count for me. Can you do it?"

He saw Reid swallow, his lips moving silently as he tried to speak. He wet his lips, then seemed to focus once again on Morgan's eyes. "Two. Three. Five. Seven. Eleven..." he started, slow. His voice was barely audible, but steady. "Thirteen. Seventeen – nineteen. Twenty-three. Twenty-nine. Thirty-one."

"That's it. Talk to me, kid," Morgan urged. He could feel commotion somewhere outside the room, and he prayed fervently that the medics were there at goddamn last.

"Thirty-seven. Forty-one. Forty-three. Forty-seven – " Reid whispered. He had to pause, struggling for breath, and leaned further against Morgan's hand. Their gazes met, and they stared into each other's eyes for a few, endless seconds, as Reid breathed hard, fighting to remain awake – Reid's eyes burning with effort, Morgan's wide in incredulous fear.

"M'rgan,'" Reid managed to get out, between gritted teeth. "'m sorry. So s'rry." And then, as a gleamy stain of blood appeared on the inside of his pale lips, he breathed – "_F'rgive me_."

Morgan's chest tightened so hard he thought he would bloody _choke_. "It's alright. Kid – Reid, it's alright," he said, stroking his thumb over Reid's cheekbone, trying to keep his voice even. "You're gonna be fine. Just – stay with me. Keep talking, kid."

Reid closed his eyes and, for a dreadful, irrational moment - Morgan thought he was _gone._ Then, Reid's lips started moving, as he formed words that were almost too soft to hear. "Fifty-three. Fifty-nine. Sixty-one."

"That's it. Stay with me, kid," Morgan whispered. "You're doing great. Go on."

"Sixty-seven. Seventy-one. Seventy-three. Seventy-nine..." Morgan held his breath as he listened to Reid's thin voice – and that's when the medics bursted into the room, and pushed him and Hotch firmly to the side, (_You can let go, sir. Let go, now,_) calling at each other as they lowered the stretcher and maneuvered Reid with experienced hands, guiding him to lie down –

(_Eighty-three. Eighty-nine. Ninety-seven. One hundred one. One hundred three. One hundred seven_)

– drowning Reid's faint voice in a chaos of information as they estimated the damage and got ready to leave. Morgan's eyes remained fixed on Reid's lips, reading the numbers as he kept counting, obediently, even as his eyes slid shut –

(_One hundred nine. One hundred thirteen. One hundred twenty-seven. One hundred thirty-one. One hundred thirty-seven..._)

– until the medics wheeled him out of the room, followed close by a Hotch with hard eyes and bloodied hands. And Morgan was left in an unbelieving daze for one long moment, as he stood alone in a corner of the room, near a small puddle of blood smeared on the floor – a bloodied curtain crumpled by his side, and prime numbers still resounding in his head.


	2. Chapter 2

They had only been interrogating the hotel guests. Through the murky mist clouding his brain, Reid found himself considering that he must stop going around knocking on doors. In the long run, it was proving to be more dangerous than actually taking part in a shooting. Yes – doors were the real hazard in their line of work. They could hide psychopaths with double personality disorders, psychopaths loaded with explosive, gun-wielding psychopaths, and of course the occasional mass destruction bacteriological weapon. It was the doors. Doors were _bad_.

They'd only been interrogating the hotel guests, when Donald had started screaming on the other side of the locked door. Hotch had broken it down when the Unsub had refused to open – and they'd found a vaguely depressing room, with flowery curtains and a frightened teenager holding a gun to his own chin. Shouting that he knew what they were after, he knew that they would come. He just _knew_.

The talking part had seemed to be going well enough. At least, until Donald had decided to point the gun at them, instead. From that point onwards – his whole demeanour had changed. He'd seemed, somehow – his back straighter, his shoulders no longer hunched, his breath getting deeper, easier – he'd almost seemed – _relieved_. Dozens of book pages fluttered all over Reid's brain, researches, diagrams, as he tried to decipher the _reason_ – identify posture patterns, compare with textbook cases, scan for revealing details. Relieved because someone had come to stop him; relieved because he wouldn't have to kill again – relieved from a burden he could no longer bear to carry – relieved from _responsibility_ –

And, right about then – Reid had remembered.

_(Blue suicide: a suicide method in which a suicidal individual deliberately acts in a threatening way, in order to provoke a lethal response from a law enforcement officer, such as being shot to death;)_

He should have guessed earlier that this would be the Unsub's goal – he should have deducted it, predicted this outcome. Perhaps, he could have. Or, perhaps – he'd have to realize that, sometimes, not even him could extricate the tortuous twists people's minds could take. And, when he 'd seen the gun aimed at his chest – he should have warned Hotch, the others – should have commanded them to shoot. Hotch would have, in a blink, no second guessing – everyone on the team had made trusting Reid part of their survival instinct a long time ago. He vaguely thought that he was letting them down, hiding information – they all would have been in danger if the Unsub decided to start shooting. He should have told them, because he _knew_ –

_(Some suspects with the desire to die will actually fire live ammunition and even kill people, which would reasonably provoke an officer to fire on them in defense.)_

Doctor Spencer Reid may not look the part, but he'd proven time and time again that he was no coward. And doctor Spener Reid did not like to see people die. So, he'd taken a step forward, instead, drawing Donald's attention onto himself – trusting that Hotchner would fire before Donald had the time to take a second shot.

Some people would consider it heroic. Others, would just consider him an idiot.

ooo

The light was bright, pulsing – blinding whiteness, on the verge of painful, making his eyes water. He blinked – shapes moving above him, vague voices crisscrossing around his head. He could not remember falling asleep. He tried to raise his head, fighting back a wave of nausea – an unusual pressure, air being forced into his mouth, down his throat – sick sweet plastic taste.

("_Doctor Reid, open your eyes, please. Can you follow the light_?")

He remembered numbers – _one hundred eighty-one, one hundred ninety-one, one hundred ninety-three_ – he could remember Morgan's voice, somewhere beyond the mist, asking him to count. Reid didn't think it really made much sense. He could not remember when he'd stopped counting. Fingers prodded him, a heavy weight on his chest, as of someone pressing down _hard_ on his ribcage. And his lungs just too _heavy_, like wet sponges, refusing to expand, to breathe for him – _that_ he could remember. Familiar, frightening echo – he tried to push himself upright and God, the sudden, howling _pain_, gripping his abdomen, pinning him back down –

("_Doctor Reid, you're going to feel a small sting. It will help with the pain._")

And there were hands, clawing out of thin air, grabbing at him, clasping his wrists, holding his _arm_. "No," he said, he _tried_ to say, his mouth trapped by plastic – he tried to lift himself, to move, to get them _off_ him, his muscles all too limp and pliant under those _hands_ – and they were holding him down, _down_, and that he _did_ remember just too well –

(_"Doctor Reid, please don't move. Hold him, people. Is he seizing? Hold him!"_)

– and then it was flooding through his veins, crawling up along his arm and spreading all over and inside him, aiming for his brain – no more room for numbers, merely the dreadful, blissful _recognition –_ no more room for – (_Morgan_) –

Until it reached his head, and just swept him under.

ooo

Some people would consider Derek Morgan an idiot, too.

Perhaps because he seemed to always take a step too far than what it would be safe; perhaps because of his habit of plunging headlong into borderline suicidal chases after the Unsub of the moment. Some people would focus on the way he blew off beauty after beauty, rejecting gorgeous women who would be more than willing to start relationships with him. Sometimes, when feeling particularly honest with himself, Morgan would even consider agreeing with those people – maybe, only maybe, he did sometimes behave with a certain degree of idiocy. Maybe.

Other times, such as right about now – Derek Morgan _knew_ he was an idiot.

Right about now, as he strode past the E.R. doors, trying to wipe off his retina the shape of a crumpled curtain, patterned with little roses and soaked with blood – Morgan was scrolling trough the list of all the many, many reasons why he was _undoubtedly_ an idiot. Including several things he had missed, he had done or worse – he hadn't done, he hadn't _said_.

Morgan narrowly avoided knocking down one of the nurses

as he tried to find his way to the main desk. He wasn't even sure if he'd parked anywhere legal – hell, it had been some sort of miracle that he'd managed to drive all the way to the hospital without causing an accident. He wouldn't complain for a ticket.

He had not ridden in the ambulance, the way Hotch had most likely done. He just – he'd been – too slow. It had taken him just a little to long to tear his eyes away from the small curtain, crumpled on the linoleum floor, darkened with Reid's blood. It had taken him a moment too long to force himself to walk past the crimson stain on the wall, slowly trickling down the ripped wallpaper. It had been – he had just needed – a minute. To get his brain started again. Where adrenaline usually kicked in, driving him forward, spurring him into action – this time, there had only been void. Thick, greyish cotton, filling his head like dusty molasses, slowing him down, too much.

He'd only been a little slower than usual. He was – afraid – that he'd been _too_ slow.

He barely had the presence of mind to shrug off his bulletproof vest before reaching the counter. He folded it on his arm, hiding the FBI sign from sight, not even sure of why he bothered at all. It didn't matter. Not many things seemed to matter right now – nothing, perhaps, except the ghastly memory of grey lips parted in shallow breaths. Those breaths sifted through his brain like tiny jewels, small and glistening and so much more precious than anything he'd ever dreaded of losing.

When he lay his hands on the counter, they were shaking, just lightly.

"Excuse me," he said. Had he stopped to consider it, he would have been surprised to find his voice steady. The nurse was in front of him withing seconds, a gentle, tired smile on her face.

"Yes. How can I help?"

Morgan cleared his throat. "I'm looking – a patient should have come in just now. An FBI agent. Gunshot," he said. Somehow, he could not bring himself to say Reid's name. The woman reached to grab a list, scanning it quickly.

"Yes. Gunshot wound to the abdomen – came in some fifteen minutes ago. They took him straight to the OR."

"Do you know – I mean," Morgan's head resounded like an empty cathedral. Fog too thick to see through. "Was he – is he still..."

"Morgan." He turned sharply to find a disheveled, pale looking Hotch standing behind him, his back straight and his face the usual mask of carefully contained, blasted nothing.

"I've got this covered. Thank you, madam," Hotch curtly told the nurse, his hand a gentle pressure on Morgan's arm as he steered him away and towards an empty, cramped waiting room. He stood, his arms loosely crossed on his chest, as Morgan all but let himself fall on one of the chairs. He hadn't noticed how weak his legs were.

He raised his gaze, trying hard to keep the bitter edge of supplication out of his voice. "Is he alive?" he whispered, words damn near scorching his mouth.

Hotch's lips were tight. "I don't know," he said, simply. His face was plain: Morgan, for a wild moment, wanted to smack him. "He's in surgery at the moment, and I haven't received an update yet."

Morgan swallowed, fighting not to cross his arms over his chest. He didn't know what to do with his hands. "Yes, but –" he almost chocked on the words. He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. "They're still operating. So he's – he's still alive, right?"

Hotch's expression did not soften. "Morgan, I _don't know_."

Morgan swallowed again – he leaned back, his eyes sweeping across the hallway, in search of something he didn't know and couldn't find. Hotch had barely taken off his Kevlar – Morgan could see it, folded on the next seat. He wasn't wearing a jacket, and his shirt was rumpled – he'd ridden in the ambulance, of course. Hotch would never leave a man down. _He_ wouldn't.

Morgan bent his head, one hand coming up to rub at his strained neck, trying to calm his heart rate down. He wouldn't leave a man down, either. He'd proven it. He'd just – he'd just been a little too slow, this time. _This_ time. Nevermind when he'd realised how he'd willingly blinded himself when – during those darker times when Reid would have needed help the most – nevermind that he, just like the others, had chosen not to see. Everyone, except Hotch. He'd been the one to stand by Reid's side – not to let their man down.

Morgan felt nauseous.

He blinked. He needed to breathe. He needed to _calm down_. He lowered his gaze, seeking something stable his thought would be able to cling to, to regain balance –

And that's when he saw it. Right at the hem of Hotch's sleeve – a tiny, dried up stain of blood – a dark, careless splatter, right on his wrist, beside the button. Reid's blood, in a sharp contrast with the pale azure of the shirt – it captured his eyes, and Morgan – Morgan found himself unable to look away.

In some remote corner of his mind, he thought he heard Hotchner talk to him. He mumbled half an answer, half an apology, not fully aware of what he was saying – he knew that he was _staring_, but – he couldn't help it. The stain was a little bigger than a dime, shaped like Texas, he thought. And the blood – it didn't look the same as the blood on the curtain. That blood had been gleaming, a deep, pulsating red – as if it still retained some of its precious oxygen, and had only been waiting to resume his duty to keep Reid's body alive. While this – this blood was dry, opaque – a dark maroon, lifeless, encrusted on the fabric like a –

"_Morgan_," Hotch repeated – and Morgan snapped out of it, barely preventing himself from jerking backwards.

"Yes," he said, right away. "I... I mean. What?" he paused, reluctantly meeting Hotchner's eyes. He did not lower his gaze – Derek Morgan did not shy from eye contact. Hotch's features seemed to have softened, even if just a fraction. He remained silent.

"I... need a minute," Morgan said and stood up, his balance unstable, backing away – his hands raising instinctively, as if to keep Hotch at a distance. He turned, stumbling to the door – he staggered through the corridor, not even sure how he was keeping upright – he couldn't feel his legs properly. He bumped into someone, and it was only automatic to mutter an apology, before he made his way to the men's restroom.

He stumbled inside, breath suddenly almost too hard to catch. He grasped the sink, his legs suddenly unstable, an unreliable jelly – strawberry Jello, Reid's favorite flavor, oh, God – he nearly lost his grip and it was not enough. He walked into one of the cubicles and, instead of slamming the door as he intended to, he found himself closing it softly, his hands numb. It was only when he lowered the plastic lid and sat down that he realized his knees were this close to giving up on him. His hands were plain shaking now; he rubbed at his head, resting his elbows on his legs, covered his face as he struggled to regain control.

Derek Morgan may have been an idiot, but he was not a coward – so, he would get out soon, and walk back, and stand like a man with Hotch as he waited. He would get up and unlatch the door, in another minute. Just a minute.

It was not the first time: he should have been used to it all, the anguish, the annihilating, silent terror, the harsh dryness in his mouth. He wondered if it was at all possible to get used to it; it never happened. Again, a sickening chill crawled down his back, spreading in his limbs, a grey weight sinking in his stomach. God, it never changed, and yet it was somewhat worse each time. Each time, after he swore he'd learnt the lesson, he would not make the same mistake again; but there were new mistakes. Countless errors, hoards of miscalculations and minute faux passes to be made. He wondered if it made sense, any sense at all, to feel all that guilt.

Morgan lowered his head, murmuring the name of a God he didn't trust, and wished he could remember how to pray.

He did not know how much time had passed – it must have been a while, minutes slipping quietly into hours, unbeknowst to his shattered thoughts – when he heard the main door creak open, and steady footsteps approached.

"Morgan?" apart from the hint of question, Hotch's voice was utterly neutral. Morgan wondered how the hell he did that.

"Yeah," he replied, his voice rough. He felt vaguely stupid, hiding in a toilet, behind a scraped pale green door, and could not bring himself to care.

"Get out," Hotch said. "Reid's surgery is over."


End file.
